Burn
by Roobini
Summary: 'Because that's all I am to you, isn't it? To you, to the whole court. Something to forget.' Under the pressure of a dying English queen, Mary had to make a choice. Two very different men, two hearts on the line, two versions of herself. She chose to marry Francis, her long-intended fiancé, and the future she had always pictured. Did she make the right decision?
1. Chapter 1

**Sebastian**

You shall not covet your neighbour's wife. The bible is resoundingly clear on that one; there is not a lot of room for interpretation. I wonder if coveting your _brother's_ wife might be a considered something of a loophole in the rule, though for some reason I doubt it. Possibly because it feels like God is not content with an afterlife of eternal damnation for that one and would rather start the torture of my immortal soul right here on earth. In fact, if all continues as it is I might take hell as a welcome reprieve. You might too, if your father forced you to watch your brother bed the woman you love. It's not an image that fades with any haste.

Being the bastard son of a King, with three legitimate brothers to contend with, you would think that I would be used to the feeling of jealousy. But I'm not. In the past I had never cultivated the habit of envying Francis, not of his power, of his future as King of France, of his last name. I would certainly have done away with that poisonous word, _bastard, _and all the spite that comes with it if I could, but I always knew that Francis had his own troubles to carry, and that he did the job of carrying them a great deal better than I ever could. Now all that has changed. Now, envying Francis has become something of a way of life for me.

Watching them now, watching her, I know I should never have stayed at court. I've been anticipating their return the whole two months of their honeymoon, half convinced that the torment of my imagination's preoccupation with what they might be doing at any given moment must be far greater than actually seeing them. But now I _am _seeing them, and I know the belief that this would be any easier was just a desperate hope, as false as the line I chant in my head every night as I try to sleep. _I feel nothing for her, I feel nothing for her, I feel nothing for her._

Candlelight dances on her skin and in her hair, making her eyes shine as the side of her mouth quirks in a half-smile. Her hair is pinned up, and she tilts her head to one side as she listens to a nobleman speaking, her long neck curving gently in a way that begs to be touched by lips. I would give anything to respond to that request, to move up behind her and kiss her lovely neck, to graze my lips against her shoulder, and continue moving down…

'I didn't expect to see you here.' A voice interrupts my dangerous line of thought, and I turn to see Lola watching me with an expression that should be reserved for the crippled and the dying.

'I hope you haven't come to offer me pity, because I don't want it,' I say, with more malice than she deserves, and her cheeks flush.

'No, I just came to suggest that perhaps you should be somewhere else. Reminding Francis of your existence on his first night home might try his mercy a little too soon.'

'Francis can also keep his mercy. I'd rather face his fury, but I doubt he considers me enough of a threat to warrant it.' I glance over at my half-brother where he is also in conversation, only a few steps away from Mary. Dressed in all the red velvet finery and gold trimmings that would befit a future king, he radiates confidence. His stance is wide and his listeners hang on his every word as he tells an amusing story, probably from their honeymoon. I don't think he or Mary have seen me yet.

'Alright then, how about _your_ mercy? Could you offer Mary that?' There is an edge to Lola's tone and her eyebrows are drawn together, creating little ripples in the skin of her forehead.

'What do you mean?' I ask, surprised enough give her my full attention.

'Must you insist on distressing her with your presence? This should be a joyous homecoming; seeing you will give it a bitter flavour.'

I drop my eyes. 'I doubt I'd make that much of an impact.'

'You know you will, Bash. She cared for you, and she took no joy in breaking your heart.' Her voice softens, and she touches my arm, that horrible look back on her face, like she's watching a starving kitten. I shrug off her hand and take a step back.

'Alright, I'll go. I just…. I just wanted to see her.'

I move away from Lola quickly, melting into the crowd of well-wishers from which I am starkly excluded, ashamed and anxious to slip away. Is that really why I came? To haunt her like a troubled ghost that refuses to move on, reaching into her world to taint her future with the past? To torment her, like she has tormented me? I hope I am a better man than that. I hope I will have the strength to stay away and leave her to her happiness, to her life with the man that she chose.

I can hear the whispers I incite as I pass, hidden between the rustles of brightly-coloured fabric and the normal buzz of polite conversation. People cringe away from me even as their eyes follow my path through the crowd, and I reach the door with relief. Quiet shadows beckon me down long hallways that will end with the embrace of an anonymous night, and I pause for a moment on the threshold, seeking May in the crowd, just for one last glance. Perhaps the air trembles with the strength of my longing, perhaps my anguish causes the hairs on her beautiful neck to stand on end, for at the same moment as my eyes find her she suddenly catches sight of me. Our gazes meet and I see her stiffen even as I feel my own body freeze. We don't move. Time begins to slow, the seconds pass languidly and the voices of the hall seem to become muted. I can feel the danger of this moment like ice freezing my blood, and yet I am helpless to end it. I want, _need,_ her eyes on me, I need to possess her gaze in the same way the Francis possesses her body, the same way she possesses my every thought and feeling, and this moment feels almost as powerful as it might if I were to hold her in my arms. Someone approaches her and she finally looks away, the colour high in her cheeks, and I am free to drag myself from the room. At first I walk slowly, but then my pace quickens and I begin to run, blindly, my eyes burning and my heart screaming, my feet pounding against the stone, thinking only that I need air. I should have left two months ago, but there is no reason I can't remedy that mistake now.

**Mary**

I had not wanted to create a fuss with our arrival home. I wanted to slip in through a back door, sneak through the secret passages and into my chamber before anyone realised we had set foot on the grounds. In fact, I begged Francis not to send word ahead of our return. But Francis isn't particularly partial to begging, and he certainly didn't see any reason for sneaking back into the castle like a pair of children who have stayed out past their bedtime. So there is a feast, a celebration, the eyes of the court to endure, the congratulations and well wishes of all the people who have plotted and schemed and whispered. They may have all be pretending they don't remember a scarce two months ago I had been set to marry a different man. No one says a word of it to me, but I know that they are whispering in the corners of the room.

The hall is warm, stifling almost, filled with candles and people and the heat of wine-flushed cheeks and the hot air of gossiping mouths. I dressed extra carefully for the occasion, threading gold ribbon through my hair and pinning it up in a delicate coiffure, choosing a dress of a colour blue that stirs my memories like dead leaves in the wind. I've been telling myself all afternoon that my vanity is due to a need to impress the court, to make Francis proud to have me standing by his side. But I'm glancing around the room now, looking for dark hair and blue eyes at the same time as I'm dreading to find them here, and I know I'm lying to myself.

Francis is talking to a woman now, a little nymph-like creature with wide eyes and a low-cut dress. Her voice is soft, she has a laugh like crystal wine glasses clinking together, and she is obviously finding him highly amusing. Women always find Francis highly amusing. There is no reason they shouldn't, either. He is charming and handsome, his blonde hair gleaming gold and an easy smile on his lips. He is radiant, possessed of a surety that comes with his birth right, that the world is at his feet and he may take from it what he will. Just one look at him and you can tell that he is going to be a king.

'Don't scowl like that, Mary,' he says, his voice low as he catches sight of me staring at him. 'We're newlyweds; you're supposed to be happy.'

I take a deep breath, making a conscious effort to unscrew my face. 'Of course. I'm sorry. I am happy.'

He reaches out and squeezes my hand briefly. 'Good. Relax and try to enjoy yourself.'

The affection in his eyes summons memories of the long, lazy mornings of the first few weeks of our honeymoon, of tender caresses with a backdrop of a turquoise Mediterranean Sea, of his eyes always on me. I smile at him, suddenly wanting to pull him away from the prying eyes and confess everything, to lay my heart at his feet and beg him to help me fix it. I begin to lean towards him, intending to ask him to come somewhere with me a moment (we are newlyweds after all), but he moves away before I have the chance, his attention already for someone else, his marriage and his wife always just a peripheral concern. He is a good man, generous, fair and dedicated to his country, bound by his duty to his people. A good man, and he will be a great king. But do the same things that make a good king make a good husband?

With a sigh, I resign myself to the fact that I, too, must do my duty to my people and celebrate at my husband's side, presenting a strong, united front. The fluttering feeling that has inhabited my stomach for the rest of the evening is beginning to ebb now that it seems the confrontation I have dreaded may not come to pass after all. Though my relief is tainted with a hint of disappointment, I might actually be able to do as Francis bid and enjoy myself if I can just contain my worry. Even so, I glance towards the door with one last thought of escape.

And all my tentative hopes of an uncomplicated homecoming evaporate. Gravity loses its hold on me and for a moment I feel like I am falling, like I am caught in the brief, sickening moment of weightlessness as the ground rushes to meet me in a collision that will break my every bone. Eyes so blue they are almost sharp have sliced the room in half to rest on my face. I had not suspected how those eyes would linger in my mind, a footnote to my honeymoon that I would refer to again and again and again. I had thought that, when securely married to Francis, they would fade away, that they would pale in comparison to the purity of our union, the trueness of our love.

I had first begun to realise that it wasn't quite that simple during the consummation ceremony, of all the terrible moments for such a realisation to surface. Francis had been sweet and considerate, his kisses turning my stomach upside down and his caresses making me tremble as he strove to help me forget the room full of witnesses. I tried to pretend it was just the two of us and ignore the watching eyes of the others in the room, but occasionally my concentration would waver and I would glance at them, blushing furiously.

I had heard the door open as more people quietly entered the room and I couldn't help myself. I opened my eyes to see who it was, and the shock had made me cry out, a noise Francis had obviously interpreted as one of pleasure. He gripped me tightly as I tried to push him away, my eyes wide with horror at the sight of Sebastian by the bed, his eyes tight shut as King Henry held him captive, forcing his head in my direction. What could I do? I couldn't reveal to Francis how distressed it made me, and the king was obviously punishing him. Like him, I closed my eyes.

But then suddenly it wasn't Francis above me anymore. It was Bash. It was his face in my mind, his skin against mine, his panting breath in my ear. I pushed the thoughts away, but they returned again and again until I embraced them, drawing Francis closer, digging my fingers into his back and wrapping my thighs around him, wanting, yearning, desperate with revulsion at myself. With a groan and a shudder, Francis had collapsed on top of me and I knew it was over. I had opened my eyes, quickly brushing away my tears before anyone might see them, seeking out Bash, wanting to convey with my expression the anguish and apology and regret screaming within me, but it was too late. He was already gone.

And now I'm seeing him again for the first time since that night and all I can think about is how I wished for him. Holding his gaze makes me burn, but I can't look away. My face, neck and chest are feverishly hot and I can hardly breathe.

'Mary? Are you alright?' Lola's voice breaks the moment, and it shatters like china dropped onto a cold stone floor. I drag my eyes away.

'Yes, of course. Quite alright,' I say hastily, glancing back at the door, but once again, Bash is gone

'You look quite hot. Come, sit down for a while and I'll bring you something to drink.'

'Yes, a drink. Thankyou.' I do as she suggests, dropping into a chair with relief. Two months ago I stood in this room and was ordered to make a choice. Two men, two different lives, two hearts on the line. I had to pick just one.

I chose wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**This is my first time writing a fanfic (be gentle with me), so thankyou to everyone who is following along so far. I hope you are all enjoying my version of how things went down on Reign. I'm having a lot of fun paying homage to these characters and I hope I do them justice, but obviously I didn't create them and I fully acknowledge they don't belong to me. I'll try and post a new chapter every couple of days for those who are interested. I appreciate any comments!**

Needless to say, any possibility of enjoying my evening vanishes out the door with Bash, and I become a terrible fidget. Up and down and back and forth, my eyes darting about the room, I am completely incapable of holding a conversation for more than few minutes. I shift in my seat or on my feet, my hands twisting at napkins and tablecloths and my skirts. People are beginning to notice. Francis is beginning to notice.

'Is something the matter?' he murmurs, his cool hand pressing at the small of my back, anchoring me with enough pressure to convey a clear message: _stop pacing._

'Yes, actually, I'm afraid I'm feeling ill.' It's not even a lie. My hands are trembling.

'The feast is not for another hour. Perhaps you should go and lie down awhile,' he suggests, his breath tickling my ear. I frown at the words, forgetting for a moment that I really would like to be excused, instead remembering all the nights in Italy I was sent to bed alone. _You go on up, I'll follow a little later. _

'I think I will,' I say coldly. 'Would you please let my ladies know?' I move away without waiting for his reply, headed quickly for the door before anyone has a chance to stop me and reaching the corridor beyond with relief. Still moving quickly, I head in no particular direction, following a breath of cool night air and relishing in being unobserved. I let myself feel now what I had been trying so miserably to hide, let it settle into my expression and the stoop of my shoulders. I am undoubtedly shaken; as much as I had dreaded seeing Sebastian tonight, I never truly expected that I would. What on earth is he still doing at court, after everything that happened?

Coming back to myself, I realise I am about to reach the gallery that usually serves as my vantage point for watching fireworks. I quicken my pace, seduced by the promise of night air unimpeded by stone, dreaming of a cold breeze on my fevered skin. When I round the corner I see him and stop. Everything inside me loses its balance, teetering like a dozen spinning tops losing momentum, the overall effect being one of vertigo and nausea. He is leaning on the balustrade, elbows resting against stone, the lines of his body curving toward the stars as he watches them with a look of suffering that makes me wonder what he sees up there. The urge to touch him surges within me, overbalancing the spinning tops and causing them to finally fall. I lean against the doorframe, my knees weak with the agony of the moonlight on his skin and the way it falls over him in a play of silver and smoky shadow.

It may be a change in my breathing that gives me away, a sudden gasp for air after a moment of suspended breath, but his body stiffens with awareness and he turns to look at me, pushing away from the stone and stowing away the suffering on his face. He smiles suavely, his cheeks dimpling beneath a layer of stubble, and bows, eyes fixed on mine.

'Your grace.'

With all the discipline and stillness I have learned from a childhood spent in a nunnery, I pull myself together and straighten my back.

'Good evening, Sebastian. Beautiful night, isn't it?'

'Very.'

'Are you planning on watching the fireworks?'

'Perhaps. I'm sure you'll have some romantic vantage point from which to watch them with my brother.'

The blood I worked so hard to divert away from my cheeks returns and I quickly glance down, but not before I see a grim smile that tells me the moonlight has given me away.

'Well I hope you enjoy yourself, now if you'll excuse me-'

'Bash wait.' I reach out without thought, my arm extending, my hand drawn to him as though to magnetic north. My fingers brush the soft hair of his arm before I catch myself and drop my hand back to my side, my skin tingling. He halts at my touch and watches me expectantly, but I can't think of what I had planned on saying next.

'Did you enjoy your honeymoon?' he asks abruptly, moving back a step, taking himself beyond my reach. As he should be.

'I did, thank you. Italy is very diverting.' I do not want to talk about my honeymoon.

'And Francis, he is everything you expected him to be?'

'Yes, of course. He is a good man.' It is requiring more discipline than I have to keep from squirming, like a child being chastised.

'Excellent. I actually have some business to attend to, so if that is all-'

'Why are you here?' I blurt out, and he flinches. 'Not that I don't want you here,' I continue hastily, 'you're my husband's brother. But I would have thought that, after everything that happened, you would leave court.'

'This is my home, your Grace,' he replies simply, quietly.

'I'm sorry, Bash,' I say just as quietly. 'You've been such a good friend to me, and I'm sorry for everything that happened. I hope that we can forget about it and start afresh.'

Something flashes across his face, like lightning on the horizon heralding an approaching storm. 'That's all I am to you, isn't it? To you, to the whole court. Something to forget. An illegitimate son whose existence is condemned, who will fade from the face of history because the powers that be wish it so. Well Mary-,' he grasps me by the shoulders before I can back away and holds me still as he brings his face within an inch of mine, '-what if I don't want to be forgotten?'

'What are you saying?' I gasp, a shiver of fear brushing my spine. He holds me for a heartbeat, and then lets me go, looking back out over the balustrade.

'Nothing. Don't you go worrying, I'm leaving in the morning. I wish nothing but happiness for both you and Francis. Truly.'

When he turns to leave I want to stop him, but instead I let him go. His receding footsteps on the stone beat against my eardrums, and he takes the fevered heat from my flesh with him. I begin to tremble and I wrap my arms around myself, squeezing tightly as I lean against the wall, wishing I hadn't seen him, frantic at the thought of not seeing him again, of leaving things between us as they are, unresolved. All the touches shared between us, every glance, every kiss, every cautious hope, he can't possibly stay at the castle anymore. The feelings that I've never named will surface every time I look at him, growing despite my every effort to suffocate them, becoming more dangerous with every moment until they are out of my control.

I will go to bed, get some rest, start the new day with my focus where it ought to be, on my husband and my country. I will think of him tonight, but then never again. When he leaves the castle these feelings can go with him.

**Francis**

I thought that I had won, you know. I thought that after our wedding I would pick her up and whisk her off into the sunset to somewhere too beautiful for sadness, where I would kiss her white skin until she quivered and everything but my name was swept from her mind. My wife, my Queen, my love, my _Mary_, why does she turn her face from me? Why does she roll over in the night, curling into herself and leaving me the smooth expanse of her back?

She is so nervous tonight. She wrings her hands and taps her feet, her eyes full of that same faraway expression I have seen so often these past two months, during a time when I should have been granted her full attention. I have held women in the palm of my hand, captivated and entirely in my power, ready to surrender to me everything that they are. I know what it looks like when a world shifts and reorientates itself to find me at its centre. That's how I know that Mary is not entirely mine.

Her ladies know something is wrong, too. I can see them glancing at her from around the room, and Lola hovers around her, never far away, bringing food and refreshments that Mary doesn't touch, dabbing at her neck with a damp cloth. Sweet, compassionate Lola, she glances at me, too, her eyes shy, her smile timid, just asking to be taken from behind as she bends over a chair. She was so kind, so gentle that night we spent together. So eager to be loved.

'Be frank with me, son, are there any heirs on the horizon?' Kind Henry claps an arm around my shoulders in a semblance of fatherly affection.

'Not just yet, father. We've only been married two months.'

'Your honeymoon was as expensive investment, Francis, one that I expected would return an heir to the thrones of France and Scotland. And potentially England.' His breath is heavy with wine, but I know better than to think it's just the drink talking. The ability to hold one's liquor is essential for any king.

'I know, and it will happen, but these things take time.'

'Good man. I'm glad that you're aware of your obligations. I got a little worried that your mind wasn't on impregnating your wife when I saw you making eyes at her lady-in-waiting over there.' He said it in an offhand way, and for some reason that made me angrier.

'Like you're one to talk,' I snap.

'When you already have three heirs to your name you can do as you wish. Until then, I suggest you pay some attention to your wife. She doesn't look well.'

My father has a habit of sweeping in, provoking me, and then moving on before I can even formulate a reply. He demonstrates this now, already halfway across the room and deep in discussion with someone else before I know the conversation is over, leaving me quietly fuming. But he is right; Mary doesn't look well, and if the king has perceived it, others will have too.

'Is something the matter?' I ask when I reach her where she is pacing by the wall. I put a hand to her back, bidding her to stop. She does stop, and even looks at me, but I feel translucent to her.

'Yes, actually, I'm afraid I'm feeling ill.' Her skin is flushed, her eyes feverishly bright. Perhaps she really is ill.

With a sudden feeling of compassion, I lean in and speak softly to her. 'The feast is not for another hour. Perhaps you should go and lie down awhile.'

Her lips purse together and her jaw tightens, like she's clenching her teeth. Not the reaction I was hoping for.

'I think I will. Would you please let my ladies know?'

'Of course. Anything,' I reply to the back of her head as she walks away, her skirts swishing with her pace, the hips beneath them swaying from side to side. There is a stirring within me as I watch her hips, but I quash it immediately. My company is obviously not wanted tonight. Lola approaches me with two glasses in hand, her eyes darting about the room.

'Mary has gone to her room to rest before the feast,' I explain, taking one of the glasses and taking a long, deep drink.

'Of course, she must be so tired after such a long trip home. You must be too.' She blushes and glances down at her feet, her hair falling about her face like waves lapping at a sandy shore.

'I am, but duty calls. How have you been? It must have been something of a relief, to be left at court with no queen to attend.' I smile warmly at her, and she smiles immediately in return.

'It has been… quiet. But I'm glad you've returned. It's just a shame about Mary, I knew she would get a shock seeing Bash here tonight, and I did warn him-'

'Sebastian is here?' The blood drains from her face as my own begins to pound in my head.

'You didn't know?'

'Why is he here? He should have buried himself in the deepest, darkest corner of Europe,' I growl through gritted teeth as I turn to storm through the room, anger in my steps, a roaring in my ears.

Lola grasps at my sleeve, hurrying along behind me. 'Where are you going? What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to find my father.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you all once again for following along, I'm tickled pink by the fact that you want to read this. It's probably a bit of a slow first few chapters, but I promise things will start to heat up after this (the story is titled Burn, after all). Happy reading :)**

**Sebastian**

My pain is ground deep into the floorboards beneath my feet, and the walls sigh with the memories of my mistakes. I run my hands over the armchair by the fire, my fingers remembering the raised patterns of the embroidery, saying goodbye. So many hours I sat in this chair over the years. I spent the whole night in it after the first time Mary kissed me, my fingertips tracing my lips, trying to remember the feel of hers. She had tasted of spirits, had been clumsy with them, and the salt of tears had stained her cheeks. A kiss for Francis, a kiss for revenge, a kiss from a woman smarting with the sting of rejection, but a kiss nonetheless. Had she always been as beautiful as she had been that night, with her eyes red from crying and her black dress in disarray? I pick up a book on my bedside table, a book of poetry that falls open habitually in my hands, already open to the page it is always opened to. There rests a flower, transparent with age, and I pick it up delicately with my fingers. Of course she has always been beautiful.

_I peered through the leaves of the hedge, looking for the source of the strangled sobs I could hear from halfway across the garden. There she was, dappled with the sunlight filtering through the leaves, her arms wrapped around her knees as she sat on a bed of trampled poppies._

_'Everyone is looking for you,' I said. Her head snapped up, and she scowled with all the wrath of Scotland._

_'Go away.'_

_'They're going to find you if you keep crying like that.'_

_She jutted out her chin, narrowing her eyes as she looked up at me. 'I am _not _crying.'_

_I shrugged, pushing through the hedge to sit down next to her. 'It sure looks like you are.'_

_She rubbed at her eyes, scrubbing away at the tear tracks on her cheeks. 'Are you going to tell them where I am?' she asked, her voice thick and wobbly._

_'No. I have lessons, so I don't want them to find me either. Are you sad because you're leaving?'_

_She sniffed and traced circles in the dirt at the feet. 'It's not fair. I don't know why everyone thinks a bunch of silly old nuns will be able to protect me better than all the guards.'_

_I nodded solemnly. 'I can fight way better than a nun.'_

_'And King Henry promised me that I could have the new horse in the stables all to myself, and I was going to learn to ride side saddle, like mother does in Scotland.' She sighed heavily. 'I hate the English. They ruin everything.'_

_'Maybe if I kill all the English, you won't have to leave. I can chop off their heads and put them on sticks all around the castle. Then everyone will be too scared to try to kill you.' I chopped at the air with an imaginary sword, fighting foes of leaves and branches until one swung back to whip me in the face. Mary giggled as I rubbed my nose, and I felt bolstered by the fact that I could make her laugh._

_'I don't want you to leave either,' I said, plucking a poppy from the soil and twirling it in my fingers. 'But you can always come back. And we can be friends again.' I offered her the poppy, springing bright and glorious from my grubby hands. 'If you don't forget about me, that is.'_

_She grinned as she took the flower and tucked it behind her ear, a shock of red against the black. 'You're too annoying to forget.'_

_I elbowed her in the ribs. 'Well you have sticks in your hair.'_

I remember how angry I had been when I later found the poppy on the threshold of the front entrance, probably dislodged in the excitement of her departure. At the time, it had felt like a broken promise, like I had been discarded the moment she left. Francis was always the memory she held on to, with all his promise of a future as king and queen of France and Scotland; it would have been easy enough to let me slip away, the dark-haired boy she had played with when Francis was in a temper. But I remember. I want her to remember too.

I steal across the floor with the footsteps of a phantom, barely breathing in case she should hear me in her sleep. I approach her bed, a lump in my throat at the sight of her resting face, and watch her for a moment, transfixed by the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath the sheets, by a twitch of her mouth, by the way a wisp of dark hair dances in her quiet breath.

Gently, I place the flower on her pillow, right by her open hand. A part of me wants her to wake, wants to have an excuse to touch her, even if it's to reassure her after frightening her half to death. Perhaps then I could kiss her goodbye, here in the dark where she can't see my face, where she might forget herself, where we could create an alternate universe, a little pocket of time in which who we are outside of this room does not matter. Perhaps we could be nameless, faceless, just two people reaching out for one another in the dark. I balance on the precipice, seeing the drop before me, revelling in the feel of the wind and the sight of the fall, knowing that a slight overbalance will send me plunging down.

She stirs, shifting in her sleep, and I quickly withdraw, pulled by the knowledge that I would never leave if she were to wake. I back away towards the door, unable to take my eyes off of her, praying that I will one day see her again. Knowing that, if all goes to plan, I never will.

I'm ready to leave by the time the pale light of dawn is seeping into the sky and a cold wind blows out the old day to usher in the new. I tighten the girth of my horse's saddle, massaging her neck when she shifts from foot to foot in protest, flanks twitching.

'Steady, miss, easy,' I croon against her coat, the warm, horsey smell of straw and chewed-up grass soothing the turmoil that rumbles just beneath the surface of my chest. My every nerve feels raw, like with one wrong move I will fall apart. I need to get as far away from the castle as possible before that can happen. Tucking a foot into the stirrup, I hoist myself into the saddle, taking hold of the reigns quickly when the horse begins to toss her head.

'Alright then, Lady,' I say softly, continuing to massage her neck as I glance back at the chateau, my eyes scanning the windows and picturing all the sleeping figures tucked away behind them. 'Let's get out of here.'

When one of those figures that should be sleeping detaches itself from the shadows and drifts towards me across the lawn, I should turn to the road, dig my heel into Lady's sides and leave nothing but a cloud of dust. But the memory of her sleeping face holds me in my place, and I watch as Mary approaches, wearing what looks like nothing but her nightgown under a cloak that she clasps tightly around her shoulders.

'Don't go,' she says, a little breathlessly. Her warm, dark eyes are wide, imploring as she looks up at me from within the hood of her cloak, her skin pink with the cold. 'Please, stay. Just a little while, just until I have a chance to try and fix everything. If I can't, then I understand if you want to leave, but please let me try.'

A sense of unease sinks through me, as thick as clotted cream running down my spine. I look down at her, at that face that can carry the powerful fury of a hurricane but now looks so sweet and earnest that I want to pick her up and tuck her into my arms. She may think she's making a request, that I could refuse, but I know the truth. I could never deny her anything.

'As you wish, your grace,' I sigh, dismounting to land lightly next to her. Her eyebrows draw up over her forehead, and I smile as I fiddle with my saddlebags. 'You look surprised. Were you expecting that I would need more persuasion?'

'I've been rehearsing my argument all the way down the stairs.'

I snort. 'You have no idea, do you?'

'About what?'

'About the kind of power you wield.'

'I've been Queen of Scotland since I was six days old, I think I have some idea.'

'That's not what I'm talking about.'

'Then what are you talking about?'

I leave the straps and turn to face her, frustrated with the confusion in her voice. 'I'm talking about the kind of power that can convince a man to remain where he is not wanted, where he is the jilted contender for that which was always beyond his reach. The kind of power that will have him choose to live in shame, constantly reminded of what he cannot have, and an enemy of those he once held dear.'

'It's not a command,' she says softly.

'That's exactly my point. It doesn't have to be. I do not stay by the command of a queen; I stay by the request of a woman.' I turn my attention back to the saddle, gathering it into my arms and lifting it from Lady's back, the rug already hot. Mary is quiet as I do, then she places a hand on my shoulder and my entire body tenses, unprepared for the contact, acutely aware of how close she is to me.

'You don't need to be forgotten, Bash. I never forgot you. Just as I said I wouldn't, all those years ago.'

I close my eyes and swallow hard, reaching for stillness as she removes her hand and turns away, heading back to the world from which she came. She stepped out of it for a moment to meet me in the secret hour before the dawn, to lay her enchantment and give me one last, deadly dose of her opium eyes, to complete the mantle of addiction under which I am so inexplicably bound, and now she darts back out of my reach once again. I remain frozen on the spot, waiting for my emotions to calm, picturing lazy ships on a quiet sea. Finally I take Lady by the bridle and lead her back towards the stables.

**Francis**

'When you are king you will have the power to dictate who remains at court, but until then Sebastian is my son and it is my pleasure to keep him here.' My father massages the bridge of his nose with his fingers, his eyes closed as he gives the impression of being completely uninterested in the conversation.

'He tried to change the line of succession, challenging my birthright and betraying my trust. He needs to be exiled!' My words sound tired even to me; we have been arguing this back and forth for most of the morning, and a good portion of the night before. Not quite the way I wanted to spend my return home.

'And he failed.'

'What's to stop him trying again? His failure might make him more desperate in a second attempt. Who knows what he might risk.'

King Henry sighs loudly, still massaging the bridge of his nose, and then he looks at me. 'I am tired of arguing with you about this. If Bash has any future designs on the throne, I will exile him. I would want proof, mind, concrete evidence, not your insecurities and speculation. He has already been punished for his past wrongdoings, so now I wash my hands of the whole business. Your injured pride is a matter between you and your brother, and I no longer wish to have any part of it.'

I clench my fists by my side, reigning in my anger. If my reasoning makes no headway, my rage will do no better. No sense of responsibility for my comfort has ever possessed my father, so expressing emotion has never made him reconsider. 'So that's it then? That's your final decision?'

'It is. But I sent for Sebastian some time ago and he's waiting by the door, so if you would like to continue venting your frustration, you can do so on him.' With a flick of his wrist he motions to a guard, and he opens the door. Sebastian cautiously enters the room, deliberately not looking at me.

'You sent for me, your grace?'

'I did. Francis thinks you are plotting against him. Kindly inform him that you are not,' King Henry says, gesturing to me with a wave of his hand that clearly says _this is your problem._

Sebastian faces me, eyeing me warily. 'I regret the tension between us and I hope you can believe me when I say that I wish you no harm.

I storm towards him, crossing the stone floor with wide steps, coming to a halt a foot away from where he stands. I see him brace himself, but he doesn't flinch. 'Our father has decided to let you remain at court against my wishes, but don't think that means you're off the hook. I'll be watching you.'

His face is like stone and his eyes glitter dangerously. 'I never wanted the throne, brother.'

'Then you certainly went to extraordinary lengths for something you didn't want.'

'I never said I didn't want anything. My actions were not the result of a desire to be king.'

We stare each other down, neither wanting to be the one that breaks first, but eventually I can no longer endure the things I see in his face. 'If you ever try to usurp me again, I'll kill you myself,' I warn, before finally breaking his gaze and turning away. I need to get out of this room.

'Oh, and Sebastian? Stay away from Mary,' I add, without looking back.


	4. Chapter 4

_**To those who have been waiting, sorry for the wait. Such a busy time of year, as I'm sure it is for everyone. I'll hopefully be more productive over the coming weeks. Thank you for all the reviews, follows and favourites - without you guys, I'm sure I wouldn't have the motivation to continue. Oh, and happy new year :)**_

**Mary**

I expected it to take quite a time to settle back into life at court, but it quickly begins to feel as though I never left. The sense of mild suspicion, of not quite trusting those around me and tensing at the sound of footsteps, settles over me with ease, working its way into long-worn crevices. King Henry continues to makes plans regarding the throne of England, like a big spider spinning a web around me, and I know I am hopelessly caught up in them. I wonder what it would feel like to live a life without a target on my back.

That target feels especially obvious today as I'm following Queen Catherine through the castle. She keeps glancing back at me, making sure I'm still there, well aware of my reluctance. In my defence, she did try to poison me not too long ago. Trusting her is not exactly second nature to me. But she had seemed earnest when she came to me, and I believe her when she says that everything she has done against me was out of a belief that I would bring about Francis's death. Perhaps she is just trying to make amends, now that she's no longer convinced of such an outcome. But I can remember the cloying smell of the poison coating my lungs, the darkening of my vision as it stole the oxygen from the air, and I know I'm right to be wary of her. If Bash hadn't burst in when he did, throwing open the windows and scooping my body from the bathtub, neither she nor I would be trekking down to Nostradamus's rooms now.

I try to shake the memory from my head, but I get stuck on my salvation, on Sebastian's arms retrieving me from the water, on the fear on his face. I had been completely naked, but he hadn't taken advantage of the situation, holding me protectively while averting his eyes, wrapping me in his cloak as soon as I could stand. I manage to shut the memory down, reprimanding myself for straying where I shouldn't. I forbade myself from thinking of him after my first night home. But then I didn't let him leave.

Catherine enters Nostradamus's quarters without knocking, flinging open the door without any care for the poor man's privacy, and he stumbles to his feet at his desk as we enter the room.

'Queen Catherine, Queen Mary,' he says, bowing sombrely to each of us. Catherine waves her hand impatiently.

'Yes, yes, very proper, but the Queen of Scotland has not followed me down here to witness your grasp of formalities. Tell her what you saw.'

Nostradamus always seems to wear an expression of pain, and I wonder, not for the first time, what it costs him for his visions of the future. Is it simply the weight of knowing the cruelties of fate that causes him such grief, or is it something else? I take the seat he offers me, clenching my hands on my lap.

'I have had a vision involving you, your grace,' he says slowly, his voice soft and rasping, like it's rubbing against a rough surface as it rises from his throat. 'One involving blood. I believe someone is plotting your assassination, though as of yet I cannot see who, nor how they plan on accomplishing it.'

I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath. I am unnerved, but I cannot say I'm shocked. 'Do you know anything else?' I ask.

'Only that the danger is imminent, your grace. I do not know even the outcome of the attempt; the blood may not be yours.'

He says it apologetically, and that makes me sad. He is obviously expecting anger from me for his lack of information, but I realise that I'm not angry with him, not even for the trouble his visions caused so recently. After all, it is not his fault that the future is so unpredictable. He only does the best he can with what he is given. 'Thank you Nostradamus, I'm grateful for the warning and I'll do my best to make the most of it,' I say, rising from my seat.

'I suggest we keep how we came upon this knowledge to ourselves,' Catherine interjects. 'We both know how little faith Francis puts in visions of the future, and Henry might have us burned as heretics. We can say we learned of this plot from one of my spies. There is no guarantee Henry will take me seriously without more information, but he might tighten security around you at least as a precaution.'

'I appreciate your concern, but I'm not keeping this from Francis,' I say firmly.

Catherine raises her eyebrows. 'Do you really think that he will have any sympathy for visions when your belief in them almost cost him his crown and his fiancé? Don't be a fool,' she scoffs.

'He will no doubt think that you are trying to manipulate me, and with good reason, given your history,' I say with all the venom I can muster, coldly staring her down. 'But he will act for the sake of my piece of mind.'

She throws up her hands. 'Fine. Do what you wish. But remember that I did right by you. I warned you about the visions when I could very well have let the future take its course, and I will continue to gather as much information as I can.'

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. 'I know, and I thank you for that. I'm sorry if I don't take your advice on what to do now.'

For a moment, Catherine seems tired. The expression of derision falls from her face, and without that to distract me I can see the deep lines around her mouth, the dark circles under her eyes, the pallor to her skin. This is a woman who has been fighting to stay afloat in a world full of people she cannot trust for a very long time.

'I want us to be on the same side,' she says. 'We both love Francis, and at the very least I think we understand each other.'

'I would like that too,' I reply, not quite managing a smile, but trying.

I leave the room with hurried steps, my skin prickling. Shadows leer from corners, darting about the flickering light of torches to reach out with long fingers and grasp at my ankles. They hiss beneath the sound of my footfalls, which seem to pound out a rhythm in my head as I walk: _run, Mary, run, Mary, run. _Every corner is a potential lurking place for something waiting to spill my blood. And _why_? Why does death want me so badly that it stirs a hatred in people I have never met, or worse, in the people that I have? I know it's silly, to be jumping at shadows as I walk the halls of the chateau, _my home, _based simply on what might be little more than the daydreams of a troubled man. But Ayleigh's face keeps swimming to the surface of my mind_, _her eyes vacant, her hair red with blood, and the memory of Nostradamus's quiet, rasping voice echoes. _You will never go home._

**Sebastian**

If I were a good man, an honourable man, I would turn away now. Everything that has happened up until this point could be tallied up to circumstance, to doing the best I could in an uncomfortable situation. An honourable man would accept the way that things turned out, would leave her sitting by the fountain in the _Cour du Cheval Blanc_, acknowledging that she has a husband who will look after her, that he does not need to know the reason for the look on her face. I used to think that I was an honourable man. But how can I possibly leave her there looking so hunted?

She's draped over the stone like discarded dress, dark hair glistening in the sun, the light from the fountain flickering across the pale skin of her arms as her fingers trace invisible patterns in the water. I envy the sun, envy the way it runs through her hair and kisses her cheeks, the way it so casually lays along the length of her body and shares her warmth. Something stirs within me as I watch her, a heat that begins at the base of my sternum, swelling to make my limbs ache and my throat dry, and I know that I have to approach her now, to let her know I am here. Because I cannot watch her in innocence, and to do otherwise is obscene.

'Your Grace,' I say quietly, and she jolts like a startled rabbit sighting a fox. I imagine what I must look like to her, a dark shape emerging from the shadows of the trees, watching her hungrily.

'Bash! You mustn't sneak up on me like that. You frightened me half to death,' she says, rearranging her dress with her hands.

'I doubt an assassin would stop to greet you,' I reply. The blood drains from her face and I glance around, suddenly on edge, sure she is seeing something that I cannot. 'What is it, Mary?'

She shakes her head, ridding herself of whatever caused her fear. 'I told you, you shouldn't sneak up on me. I'm sorry, I haven't spoken to Francis about you yet. It's been on my mind...'

I sit down next to her and look at her closely and she loses the end of her sentence, letting it dangle unfinished. 'What has happened?' I ask.

She holds my gaze, searching for something, and I feel like she can see all the way through me, like she is laying bare everything that I am to be weighed and measured. It's an unnerving feeling to one that has so much to hide.

Finally, she speaks. 'Nostradamus predicted an attempt on my life.'

It is a struggle to keep the fear those words spark from showing on my face, but I manage as best as I can. 'Does he know when or how?'

She shakes her head. 'No. He just said he can see blood.' She raises her chin and stiffens her jaw, and these little attempts at showing bravery break my heart and remind me that she is still very young. Just a girl, really, trying to see through muddy water, surrounded by crouching monsters with a taste for her flesh. And I know that right now I'm one of those monsters, though my motivations and desires are unique to those around me. But I want to be so much more than another fiend willing to sacrifice her to achieve their own ends.

'No harm will come to you while I'm around,' I say, touching her hand. I mean the gesture to be reassuring, but her eyes widen and she stands up abruptly.

'Thankyou, but I'm sure Francis will find a way to protect me,' she says, fiddling with her hair and looking at the ground. Despite myself, I am provoked by her efforts to distance herself, so I stand as well, enjoying the way my sudden height and proximity causes her to take a few steps back, the blood returning to her face with a vengeance.

'He doesn't seem to be doing a good job so far. As I said before, if I were an assassin, I doubt I would have stopped to greet you, and you wouldn't have seen me until it was too late,' I say.

'He doesn't know about it yet, so he hasn't had a chance to do anything about it,' she replies heatedly.

'So you told me before you told him?' I ask with a smirk.

'I haven't had a chance to tell him yet. I only just found out.' She is getting irritated with me, and I can't help but goad her further, heady with the power of being able to make her drop her decorum.

'I'm sure he has the highest respect for any warning from Nostradamus.'

'He has the highest respect for me, so I'm sure that will more than make up for any scepticism.'

'You're so beautiful when you're angry,' I say before I can stop myself. Because she is beautiful, with her flashing eyes and her stern brows, her wide stance suggesting a readiness for a physical assault, looking up at me with her pride smarting on her cheeks and defiance in the tilt of her neck. I can hear a hitch in her breathing, a quiver that I cannot help but interpret as an invitation, and I raise my hand, gently taking her chin between my fingers.

'Bash, don't,' she says softly, her voice holding a warning, but her eyes defenceless. Defenceless? Is that really how she feels? Is she as helpless in my presence as I am in hers?

With a considerable amount of effort, I drop my hand and sigh heavily. 'No matter how Francis takes your news, know that I'm taking it very seriously. I'll be watching over you. I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe.'

'I know,' she says, still sounding breathless.

I have to leave before I do something that I won't regret, but that she probably will. With a small bow I make my retreat.

**Francis**

Something has gone wrong. I chose my path so carefully, weighing the risks and benefits, calculating that my feelings for Mary and the advantages of being the royal consort of Scotland would bring a future of happiness. But there was a wayward element, something I didn't take into consideration that has sent that future astray and left me in a marriage that might soon mirror that of my father to my mother. I'm not sure that what I'm doing now will help in the slightest, running to Mary with the taste of Lola still on my lips, but God knows I have to do something before everything comes crashing down around my head. We are so newly married and, as my father is so fond of pointing out, still very much childless; now is not the time to take a mistress. But I came upon Lola unexpectedly this afternoon, hiding in a corner in the gallery, looking so forlorn I had to stop. She had been so vulnerable, so earnest in her declarations of love for me, and her lips had been so very kissable.

I knock on my wife's door, and when I'm given leave to enter I do so with my heart in my throat, so sure that she will smell my indiscretions on my clothes, will see the shape of Lola's body imprinted on my arms. But she barely smiles at me before she begins to talk, and it quickly becomes obvious that how I spend my time away from her is far from her mind.

'I am glad you have come tonight, Francis, because I need to tell you something and I would like you to keep an open mind about it and not dismiss my worries out of prejudice,' she says, sitting in a chair by the fireplace, already dressed for bed. I sit opposite her, already knowing that I wont like this conversation, and that bridging the distance between us is a fruitless endeavour tonight.

'I'm listening,' I say cautiously. She looks into the fireplace for a moment, presumably choosing her words carefully, and that seems even more ominous. I'm inclined to forbid the conversation before she even says a word.

'I went with your mother to visit Nostradamus,' she begins. I brace myself, because I have the distinct impression that she is beginning with the part of the story that will anger me the least, and I'm already getting angry.

'And why did you do that?'

'Because he had a vision involving me.'

I run a hand through my hair. 'Don't you think his visions have done enough damage? Why do you insist on giving them your attention?'

'This time it's my death he saw,' she replies softly. I tap my fingers on the arm of the chair, knowing my next words need to be gentle.

'He predicted my death, and I'm not dead. My darling, please don't let this man fill your head with foolish worries. You are safe here.'

Despite my intention not to anger her she gets to her feet, her fists clenched at her sides.

'Francis I am not a fool, and I'll thank you not to treat me like one. Do you think I don't know how terribly wrong everything went last time I listened to Nostradamus? But I know that some of his predictions have come to pass, and the fact remains that I am not safe, not now that I'm a contender for the throne of England, and your father is making no secret of his desire to back my claim.'

I sigh in exasperation. 'Compose yourself, Mary. I'm tyring to have a conversation with you.'

But she wont be composed of course, and the pitch of her voice rises. 'You are so sure that there is nothing in this world that could be more powerful than you, and I know these visions and notions of fate threaten those ideas, but don't let your pride cost me my life, Francis! Even Sebastian knows to take Nostradamus seriously-'

I sit up sharply. 'Sebastian does, does he? And how do you know that?' I ask, trying to keep my temper, but afraid that losing it is a foregone conclusion.

She purses her lips and drops back into her seat. 'He came upon me sitting outside after I found out.'

'And he spoke to you?' Now my voice is the one rising and I'm trying not to interpret the hesitance in her eyes as guilt or shame, but it's becoming increasingly difficult. A thought of my own guilt flashes through my head, but I push it swiftly aside. I am the future King of France. I answer to no one. Not even my wife.

'Of course he spoke to me, I was shaken and he wanted to know if something was the matter. You cannot hold what happened against him, he was only doing as I asked of him. To protect you.'

'If you want not to be treated as a fool, don't act like a fool,' I hiss, and she recoils like she's been struck. There is a pause, a moment of quiet, both of us regretting what has been said and preparing ourselves for the fallout that is to follow. Some of her hair has escaped her braid and it curls around her face like tendrils of a dark and unfriendly plant, promising hidden thorns or leaves that sting like nettles.

She takes a deep breath to steady herself, and when she speaks again her voice is deliberately calm. 'Sebastian loves you, and if you are wise you will heal the rift between you. Nothing that happened before our wedding was his fault. I hate to see the two of you at loggerheads.'

I get to my feet, sick of hearing her speak Sebastian's name and ready to leave behind this feeling of shame she inspires in me, like I have done wrong and will continue to do nothing but wrong in her eyes. 'I will give your concerns some thought. As the future Queen of France, you should feel safe at your own court. Now I'll bid you goodnight.' I leave the room with much relief, shutting the door on her quiet 'goodnight' and stalking down the hall, wanting to put as much space between us as possible. My pride clouds my judgement, does it? And to tell me how a wise man might act when she speaks of visions and goes about fraternising with bastards who have an eye for the throne. She may find me wanting, but there are others for whom I am more than enough, and that is what I'm seeking tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

_This chapter went in a direction I kind of wasn't expecting, so let me know if you don't think it's working. There is also a time jump between Mary and Sebastian's pieces that might be confusing, because Mary is headed out riding in both. I'll work on making it clearer, but for now I just wanted to post something. Thanks for reading :)_

**Mary**

There is a beauty in simplicity, a peace. I can lose myself in the back and forth motion of a scrubbing brush. One, two, one, two, one, two, kneeling on the floor by window, the stone warm from the rays of the sun. It has been a long time since I did any manual work, but I used to scrub the floors of the nunnery every morning, working quietly side-by-side with the sisters. I remember how I had objected to it at first, fuming to the Mother Superior that scrubbing floors is beneath the duties of a queen. She had simply smiled at me, the old skin of her face crumpling up around her knowing eyes, and told me about how Jesus had washed the feet of his disciples.

_'__If the son of God deigns it not beneath him to wash feet, I doubt scrubbing a floor should be beneath the Queen of Scotland. Unless you hold yourself to be higher than Jesus.'_

So I had joined the others on my knees the next morning, rolling my sleeves up to my elbows and tying my hair back in a handkerchief to keep it out of my eyes. It had been hard work at first, and my back and hands and knees had ached, but I had grown to enjoy it. I enjoyed the unity of it, of all of us, from the novices to the Mother Superior herself, working together to keep our home clean. And I have never thought a task below me since.

I am interrupted in my musings by a knock on the door, and Greer, Lola and Kenna enter my chambers.

'Mary! What on earth are you doing?' Kenna exclaims, and all three of them pause to stare in horror, as though they have caught me in the middle of something immoral. With a sigh I dry my hands and get to my feet. A queen should never be seen on her knees.

'It's just something I used to do at the nunnery. It soothes me,' I explain, watching as three sets of eyebrows rise.

'They had you scrubbing floors?' Greer asks, clearly offended.

'We all scrubbed the floor. It's just how we began the day.'

'If the floors are dirty I can speak to the servants,' Lola offers, and I shake my head.

'No, the floors are fine.'

'Then why were you scrubbing them?'

'Because I wanted to,' I snap, and I immediately regret my tone when they all glance at the floor, their faces blank. Sometimes it is hard to be both friend and queen.

'We came to dress you, your grace, but you seem to be dressed already,' Lola says after a moment of silence.

'I rose early this morning. I couldn't sleep.' As I speak I look closely at Lola. She is dressed in velvet the colour of red wine, her hair glitters with jewelled pins and more jewels drip from her neck and ears. She looks lovely, particularly lovely. With a smile, I begin to wonder if her heart has finally laid Colin to rest and started looking to someone new.

'That is a beautiful dress, Lola. Are you wearing it for something, or someone, in particular?' I tease, but instead of the blush or smile I was hoping for her skin goes pale.

'I didn't realise dressing nicely was a privilege restricted to royalty,' she says hotly, and then touches her hand to her mouth as though she wishes to put the words back in. There is a silence while all three of my ladies avoid my eyes. The atmosphere feels charged with static, like it does right before a lightning strike, and as I look over them all I regret ever coming to the French court. We were so close such a short time ago, so full of hopes and excitement for what the future would bring us, secure in our friendship with one another, but now there is a rift between us full of unspoken words. There are secrets in our midst, I'm sure of it. Theirs and mine. I wish Aylee were here. Her death has left an echoing reminder that our group in incomplete. Sweet Aylee, I'm sure her simple kindness could bridge the gaps between us all.

'Do you remember when we first arrived here? The way we kicked off our shoes and danced at the wedding?' I say, gripped by a sudden longing for those days, when my biggest worry was whether Francis would like me.

'It feels like a long time ago,' Lola says softly, raising her eyes to meet mine. 'A lot has changed since then.'

'I hope it hasn't changed too much,' I reply. Her face is so guarded, so closed against me, and it makes me sad. I wish I could reach out to her and make her open up to me, to share what she is hiding that has bought about this distance, and I'm about to take her hand when Greer breaks the silence.

'If there is nothing else you need me for, I really need to be getting along.'

I frown at her, taking in her high colour and the fact that she is already edging towards the door. 'Where are you in such a hurry to be off to, Greer?'

'I have a… a dress fitting. Very important, husband hunting and all that. I've got to keep up with the trends,' she stammers without meeting my eyes.

'Of course. Don't let me keep you from your day,' I say, and they respond with curtsies before leaving the room. They leave behind the ache of loneliness and I long for companionship, for someone from whom I can speak openly with, from whom I have no secrets to hide. My mind begins to drift into dangerous waters, irresistibly drawn to wanting the company of the one person who I need to keep my distance from, but I quickly still the thought and decide to go riding. Distraction is my best, and only, resort. Hopefully the thoughts and the feelings that accompany them will ease with time.

As I leave my chambers, two of the guards by my door begin to follow me. I halt and look them up and down. 'Can I help you, gentlemen?' I ask.

'We have been ordered to follow you, your grace, and protect you from any threat that might arise as you go about you day,' one replies. He is a good head taller than me, with light, curly hair and a surprisingly soft voice. The other is also tall, with spotted skin and hunched shoulders.

'And what are your names?'

'I'm Nicolas, your grace, and this is Gilles.' The blonde one, Nicolas, answers.

I nod at them both, and then continue on my way, a small smile turning up the corners of my lips. My relationship with Francis may be askew, but maybe he is finally beginning to listen to me. Perhaps things between us can still be mended.

**Sebastian**

I drag my heavy feet across the ground, my whole body gripped with exhaustion. Lady prances along beside me, her ears pricked forward and her nostrils flaring, eagerly anticipating the hay that awaits her in her stall. Nothing but her good manners are keeping her from racing ahead without me – I doubt I'd have the strength to restrain her if she grew tired of my slow pace. My left arm throbs dully, a steady reminder of what I have done and what still needs to be done. I may have failed this time, but I will succeed. I have to.

The morning is cold and clear, and the ice that dusts the grass warns of the coming winter. My breath mists the air before me as I walk, and the chill, combined with the early hour, should mean that I don't come across anyone bar the odd stable hand. There is nothing I want more than to slip away to bed without having to lie to anyone this morning.

But when I enter the stables the first thing I see is two guards saddling horses, and I curse under my breath. No doubt my arrival will be reported to someone now, and while I am at liberty to spend my nights as I please, with my brother's suspicion hanging over my head any unusual comings and goings are bound to be questioned.

What I am not expecting is for Mary to round the corner an instant later, dressed to go riding.

'Bash!' she exclaims, her hand flying to her chest. For one wild moment her entire face lights up, and the way she looks at me is almost enough for my already weak knees to give way. Collecting herself, she glances at the guards and rearranges her expression into one of calm politeness. 'I didn't expect to see anyone here so early.'

'Neither did I,' I reply, continuing to walk Lady to her stall, my left arm tucked beneath my cloak. I'm doing a rapid mental assessment of my appearance, praying that there is nothing to betray that I might have been up to anything more unusual than a very early morning ride. With another quick glance at the guards, she follows me.

'Where have you been?' she asks.

'Just out and about. It seemed a good morning for it.'

'It's quite early to be riding.'

'Aren't you also going riding though?' For some reason this makes her blush crimson, and she mumbles something about strange dreams.

'I hear you've quite taken it up as a hobby recently, you and your entourage.' I nod in the direction of the two guards, who are watching me suspiciously.

'Only when I have Gilles and Nicolas. Sometimes I have Artus and Robert, and Artus is a very poor rider. That, and they both get anxious about where I choose to go.' Lady sniffs Mary's hair, and she strokes her velvet nose.

'As they should be, when you've been venturing into the bloodwood. Why do you insist on making my promise to keep you safe as difficult as you can?' I say, lowering my voice until it's barely a hiss, wary of listening ears. I undo the girth of Lady's saddle and lift it from her back, wincing as white hot pain shoots through my left arm, gritting my teeth as I force myself not to drop it in response, carrying it towards the saddle room around the corner with Mary on my heels.

'How do you know where I ride?' she asks.

'I have my sources,' I reply, dropping the saddle onto a rack with relief and cradling my arm beneath my cloak. 'I would have thought you would be doing your best to avoid danger after what Nostradamus saw.'

'I have my guards with me.'

'Two men, who look like they are barely old enough to leave their mother's breast. I think they are doing a better job at tracking your movements than they are at protecting you.' As I face her I realise how very small this room is, and how very sheltered from prying eyes. This is as close to alone as I have been with her in weeks, with her new guards always ten steps behind her. The most we've interacted is a glance or a smile across a room.

'Francis assigned them to me after I told him about the vision. I'm sure he chose men he was confident in. He loves me.' Her anxious eyes and a rise in her voice make the last part sound like a question, one that I am the very last person in the world she should be asking. Which of my past wrongdoings has earned me the prison of this girls cupped hands? Her fingers are the bars through which I view the world beyond her, distorting everything, forever reminding me that I am hers. God, what does she want me to say?

'Of course he does,' I say as another sharp jab of pain races up my arm, and for a moment my vision darkens. 'He loves you because you're beautiful and regal and you make an excellent queen. You are a good match for France.' I sit down on the ground heavily without consciously deciding to do so, my head spinning. My concentration is slipping – I need to lie down.

'Bash, what's wrong?' Mary asks, kneeling down beside me and looking me over with concern. She must notice the way I'm cradling my injured arm, because she gently takes it in her hands and stretches it before me. I don't fight her; I'm having enough trouble maintaining consciousness.

'You're bleeding,' she gasps, seeing the red smears on the skin of my hand. She rolls up my sleeve to expose the crude bandage around my forearm, soaked through with blood. 'What happened to you?'

'It's nothing,' I mumble as she slowly unwraps the bandage. 'I've just lost a lot of blood. But Mary, Francis, he loves you wrong,' I say, gripped with a sudden, desperate courage that probably has more to do with my fading consciousness than any real conviction that I should be telling her this. 'I've seen him try to put a leash on your spirit, and it's almost worse than seeing him touch you. I know you're lonely here, that he hasn't visited you at night in weeks. You shouldn't be left lonely. Don't you want to be loved for more than your suitability as a consort?'

She exposes the long, angry gash that runs the length of my forearm, oozing blood over swollen skin.

'How did this happen?' she asks, frantically ripping at her skirts and pressing a wad of material against the wound.

'I did it. It's just deeper than it was supposed to be. It's not important.'

'What do you mean, you did it? It is important!' She grips me with both her hands, her dark eyes wide and frantic. 'Help, Nicolas! Gilles!'

I clap my good hand over her mouth, muffling her cries. 'No, Mary, they can't know. This wound, I did it to myself. I did it for you. Because I love you,' I whisper, aware of the clinking of chain mail and prioritising brevity over making sense. 'I love you because you're wild, and fierce and courageous. Because you can refuse a king, deliver a baby, climb a tree. Because you have the heart of a lioness and the lives of everyone matter equally to you. Mary, I love _you_, not your station.'

I'm not sure what possesses me in the next moment. Maybe it's my light-headedness, or just the fact that she is so close. Mostly it's the way that her eyes are burning, but I take my hand away from her mouth and kiss her. I kiss her hard, adrenaline letting me forget my pain and my weakness, aware of little else but her lips beneath mine, her body so close in this dark room, my fingers in her hair. The kiss lasts barely an instant before she springs away from me like a startled rabbit, just as one of her guards appears at the door of the room.

'Is everything alright, your grace?'

'Y-yes, we're fine, I'm fine,' she stammers, her eyes wide and her chest heaving.

'Is there any reason his lordship is on the ground?' he asks.

'A perfectly good place to sit,' I say drowsily, my vision darkening again.

'Oh, Sebastian, he was… was just checking his boot. Are you all ready to go? I'll follow you out in just a moment,' she says hastily, and the guard hesitates by the door, but she smiles and waves him off and he slowly makes his way back to his horse. She bobs down next to me again.

'I have to go if you want to keep this wound a secret. I wish you hadn't… but that doesn't matter. Is there anyone you can trust with this?'

'My mother,' I reply, putting my head between my knees.

'I'll send for her immediately. And I'll come and find you when I return.' She lingers, her hand on my arm, and I can feel her hesitancy to leave me like this. Dying now, with the memory of her lips still fresh and her concern draped over me like a blanket, would not be so bad.

'Go, Mary. Go before they come looking for you,' I manage to say. 'I'll be alright.'

I hear her take a deep breath before rising to her feet. Her footsteps are the last thing I register before I finally succumb to darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

_I know I said I would go back and fix chapter 5, but I decided to write chapter 6 instead, so I'm sorry for leaving that mess. I'll fix it soon. Thanks to those who have favorited and followed, and double thanks to those who have commented (and especially to those special people who do so for each chapter). Your encouragement keeps me going. Anyway, here's chapter 6. Let me know what you think :)_

I wake to light behind my eyelids and a pain that hammers against my forehead. With a groan, I roll over and dry retch, my empty stomach convulsing. A cool hand smooths my hair off of my forehead and presses a glass to my lips. When the water hits my mouth I'm gripped by an overwhelming thirst, and I gulp greedily, the water tasting like cold sunshine slipping down my throat.

'Careful. Drink slowly, or you'll make yourself sick.'

'How long have I been out?' I ask, the croaking voice that rises from my throat sounding not at all like my own.

'A few hours. You woke long enough to take some water some time ago, but I'm not sure you were fully conscious when you did.'

My mother strokes my head again and I crack my eyelids open just enough to see her sitting by my bed. Her face is calm, but a storm is coming.

'Sebastian de Poitiers,' she says, her voiced hushed as she leans over me, 'please tell me that I didn't find you unconscious on the floor of the stables because you have been dabbling with blood magic.'

I close my eyes again. 'I was unconscious because I did a poor job of bandaging myself up. I imagine you found me because Mary sent for you.'

'Sebastian!'

'I'm too old to be scolded.'

'But not old enough to act with sense. How many times have you renounced the old ways to me? How many times have you insisted that you follow your father's religion?'

'I had no choice.'

'I can think of no possible explanation as to why you would think blood magic is your only choice. For anything.'

_The foreign words rose from my mouth, hissing like water on coals. Ashes and salt fell form my fingers, scattered to the wind as I turned, round and round, calling for forces as old and heavy as the stones beneath my feet, unwilling to move without a suitable incentive._

I blink away the memory, wishing it hadn't been my only choice. 'Do we have to do this now? I'm not feeling particularly chipper.'

'That is exactly why we have to do this now. You put your life in serious danger, and who knows what else.'

I sigh and try to ignore the persistent pain in my head. I know that vague excuses or dismissals will not satisfy my mother, and she won't leave me be until I tell her what she wants to know. 'Nostradamus predicted an attempt on Mary's life.'

Now it's her turn to sigh. 'I should have known she would have something to do with this. I have heard whispers of some sort of threat to her safety, and then of course there are her new bodyguards. But that doesn't explain your actions.'

I close my eyes again, feeling some relief in sharing this burden with someone. 'I went to see Nostradamus myself after I found out.' I clear my throat, trying to rid myself of the dread that clogs up my oesophagus any time I think of what Nostradamus told me. 'He has had another vision that he was keeping to himself. He was fairly reluctant to share it with me, but I persuaded him.' I feel guilty as I say this. My idea of persuasion that day had been to slam the big man against the wall with a knife to his throat.

'What did he see?' my mother asks, her voice soft, encouraging.

'That the assassins will be successful. Mary will die. Unless I can do something to change her fate.'

_There was a humming in the air that rattled my bones and a change in the consistency of the atmosphere that made me feel heavier than before. There was a presence, existing in a dimension not quite the same as my own, flickering through the shadows, unimpressed with having been summoned by a mortal with the arrogance to think he could call on gods. I could feel it, with a sense that was beyond those of sight and sound and touch, like whatever it was reached inside me and took a hold of my heart, sending fear fleeing through my veins and invading my head. It was from a time before words, had watched the creation of human communication and knew all the languages of the ages, but it did not speak. It had no need for speech. In the space of a breath it knew all that I was, all that I would be, and why I had come. I felt I had been ripped open and blasted apart, replaced by a strange mingling of its consciousness and my own, and from the dark, swirling mess that was the memories and thoughts and feelings that made me up came a vivid, shining image. Mary's face._

I open my eyes again and pull myself up into a sitting position, unnerved by the strength of my memories. My mother watches me carefully, her face blank and composed to be so. 'Did you perform a summoning? From one of my books?'

'Yes.'

'Using?'

'Ash. Of oak and bone. And salt. And blood.'

'Your own blood?'

'Not at first.'

_I knew that the being, the presence, was not satisfied with my offering, that the bowl at my feet was not enough to impress. Before the thought had consciously entered my head I had pulled my knife from its sheaf on my belt and pressed its silver tip to the skin of my arm. I realised that the movements were no longer mine, that my hand was acting on no decision of my own as it pierced my skin with the blade and slowly drew it the length of my forearm. My flesh burned as my veins were opened, and I knew the cut was deep, too deep, as the dark red of arterial blood spilled from the slash, falling to the leaf litter in fat drops._

'I had pigs blood from the kitchens, but it wasn't happy with that, so I used my own.'

Suddenly she lurches forward, gripping my shoulder and staring into my face. 'It?' she whispers, her eyes frightened.

'Whatever it was that answered my call.'

Her face unsettles me. My mother is not often afraid. 'Now you listen to me, Sebastian. Mary's fate is not your concern and it is not our place to persuade the gods against certain paths. Nostradamus's vision may or may not come to pass. Do everything you _mortally_ can to prevent it if you must, but stay well away from these forces that you barely comprehend and will certainly never control.'

'I won't let Mary die. Not when I could save her.'

'You won't save her! Blood magic is dangerous, my son, and it will take a price that you do not expect. There is a fine balance in magic that you do not understand. If you buy her life, the old ones will take another, one you value just as much.' She pauses and studies me while I resolutely avoid her gaze, before she begins speaking again. 'Not to mention the fact that your infatuation with her grows ever more perilous. She was here earlier, asking for you. She was almost hysterical. I told her that I would send word when you had woken, but not to visit again. When will you stop putting your life on the line for that girl? It was madness enough when she was you brother's fiancé, now she is his wife. She is _married. _Til death do they part.'

She finally releases me and settles back into her chair. I'm a little surprised I have enough blood left to flush, but I can feel the heat spreading up my neck in response to my shame. I glare across the room, watching the flames in the fireplace, pirouetting like slender dancers clad in tangerine and scarlet. 'You are quite possibly the last person in the world who should be advocating for the sanctity of marriage.'

She frowns, her mouth turning down at its corners and her dark eyebrows drawing together, causing ripples in the skin of her forehead. But she doesn't look angry at my remark. No, that expression is more one of… pity.

'Do not misunderstand me, I am merely speaking prudently. Because I know you, and I know that this is not a life for you. I am aware of what I am to Henry. I am a refuge, a confidant, a reprieve from the expectations of a country, but I know that he does not belong to me. He takes other mistresses, and as much as he might despise Catherine, she will always be his wife, the woman by his side, and I will always stand in the shadows. But I don't think you have any idea how to play on the sidelines.'

After my initial shame flares and dies away her words wash over me, soft and hypnotic, their meaning having as much effect as a breeze blowing over an ocean, ruffling the surface, but feeble against the powerful currents deep below. I keep thinking of the blade sliding through my skin. From that point, my memories grow slippery and elusive. I know I made a hasty bandage and rode home, but I can't quite remember doing it. And how did the ritual end? Did I succeed in bargaining for Mary's life? Did the spilling of my heart's blood to the forest floor achieve anything at all?

'Sebastian, are you even listening to me?'

'No. I have this pounding headache. I think my skull is about to burst open.'

She studies me for a moment, then raises her hand to my cheek with a sigh. 'My stubborn son. Nothing I say will make any difference at all, will it?'

I place my hand over hers and hold it to my cheek. It reminds me of being a boy, of her warm care after an injury or during an illness. Her calm presence beside my bed, bathing my head with a damp cloth, feeding me broths and telling me stories. 'You know that I love you and have the highest respect for your opinion. And I know that you're right about everything. But if I could change the way I feel, I would have done so a long time ago.'

I know my words have made her sad – I can see it on her face – but all she says is 'sleep', before taking her hand away and leaving the room, the door closing with a quiet _click _behind her. I close my eyes with some relief, giving myself over to the pain in my head and my arm and the exhaustion I feel that seems to run all the way down to my bones.

**Mary**

This has been one of the longest days of my life. All of my distraction techniques are failing; I can focus on nothing. The ride I took this morning was a hectic, horrible thing, with my anxiety transmitting to the horse, making him shy at shadows and bolt without warning. At least it made a good excuse to cut it short so that I could go off in search of Diane. I was relieved to find that she had received my message, relayed by one of the stable boys, but incensed by her blank refusal to allow me to see Sebastian.

I don't care what she says about propriety. I'm going anyway.

I move swiftly down the passage, my footsteps light and my chest tight with the fear of being caught. Which is ridiculous, because I am a queen and this is my home and I am free to walk about the corridors. Even if it is the middle of the night and I am on my way to see my husband's estranged brother. In spite of this shaky confidence in my authority, I still used the secret passage out of my room to slip past my guards.

I approach the door with trepidation, and my confidence entirely deserts me when it comes time to knock. The sound my knuckles make against the wood is feeble, a request rather than a demand, and for a moment I hope that he is asleep. But a hoarse voice bids me enter, and with a deep breath I open the door and slip inside, closing it behind me. The room is warm, with coals of a fire glowing moodily in the grate, their flickering burn the only light in the room. He sits in an armchair by the fireplace, elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, the orange glow sending eerie shadows coiling about his frame, making him look otherworldly and strangely beautiful.

'You really don't need to keep checking on me,' he says, without looking up.

'Oh. I hadn't heard anything from your mother, so…' I trail off as he sits bolt upright and stumbles to his feet.

'Mary! What are you doing here?' he asks, clearly flustered. He takes a few steps towards me, this dark man, with his ruffled cloths and tousled hair, and suddenly I feel utterly out of place and awkward. This room is so masculine, with its dark colours and stained wooden floors, the furniture heavy and understated. And I am hyper aware of a large bed looming from the shadows at the end of the room, the coverings disturbed, as though recently abandoned. I feel very hot.

'I'm sorry, I should go,' I mumble, my eyes fixed resolutely on a spot on the wall.

'You've come all the way down here at this time of night just to turn around and go back again?' he says, his tone goading me, and I can see a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. 'Don't tell me that you're afraid to be alone with me?'

I square my shoulders and look him in the eye, my pride pushing out my self-consciousness. 'Well, I did come to see if you're alright, after that terrible incident at the stables, but since you are, and since I did as you asked and kept your secret, I think you owe me an explanation.' Without waiting for his reply, I walk past him and take the seat by the fire opposite the one I found him in. He follows me, retaking his chair, and we sit in silence for a few moments, my embarrassment reclaiming my tongue as I stare resolutely into the fire.

'Thank you for what you did. I think I probably owe you my life,' he says slowly.

'You've saved mine before. I would like you to explain why I had to, though. But first I would like to know if you are completely out of your mind,' I say in a rush, wanting to get the words out before I lose my nerve.

He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. 'Possibly. But in what context are you referring?'

'You kissed me,' I say bluntly, still not able to look directly at him and angry at the blush that is claiming my cheeks. 'And you said all those things you did. I suppose you were quite delirious with blood loss, but I'm _married_.'

'So I've heard,' he mutters.

I shoot a quick look at his face and have to glance away again, my throat tight with all the things I want to say in response to the pain I can see there. 'I should never have kept you from leaving.'

'You probably shouldn't have.' He gets to his feet, crossing the room, only to return a moment later with two glasses in hand. He hands me one and then collapses back into his seat. 'Scotch,' he says as I sniff the amber liquid suspiciously, the fumes strong and heady. 'A little something from your home.'

I take a sip and I wince as it burns my mouth, but the warmth it leaves behind is pleasant. I have had it before, of course, but never very much of it. Sebastian grips his glass with both his hands as he stares into the coals, as though holding on for dear life, and I get the feeling that this is not his first glass of the night.

'I can't leave now though, Mary, not with your life in danger,' he continues.

'Francis still doesn't like the fact that you're here,' I add, more to have something to say than to contribute any new information. I'm fairly sure he knows Francis's feelings on the matter.

'He's no doubt trying to find a way to have me exiled,' he replies, taking a gulp of scotch and looking at me intently. 'I'm surprised I haven't been tried for treason yet, really, because I'm sure that every time I look at you my whole heart is in my eyes.'

I want to look away, but I can't. There is a hitch in my breathing, a tremble, and a heat that has spread from my cheeks to envelop my whole body. There is an ache in my chest, like being incredibly thirsty, but somehow deeper, darker, and my fingers tingle. And I can see what he means as he looks at me, the way that his eyes soften and his brows contract, as though the sight of me brings him both joy and sorrow, and he is trying wrap me up and pull me close with his eyes alone. It makes me feel… naked, like the layers of cloth that bind me, of undergarments and petticoats and corsets and skirts, are as fragile as moth wings. I feel like I can see his heart in his eyes. And I know that no one has ever looked at me like that before.

I stand abruptly, knocking the chair back in my haste. 'I'm glad to see you're feeling better. I think I'll go now,' I say, and he stands as well. I draw a shaky breath as I realise that he has placed himself between me and the door.

'Francis doesn't deserve you,' he blurts out. I edge around the chair, recognising the reckless gleam in his eyes, the same way he looked before he kissed me the first time, down by the lake. I have to remind myself that I kissed him first. 'If he sees fit to leave you lonely in a foreign land while he spends his time with others, he deserves to lose you.'

The shock of his words makes me pause in my retreat. 'What?' I ask.

His whole demeanor changes, his eyes widening, his stance softening. 'Mary-'

'Don't Mary me! Who is he spending his time with?'

'I didn't mean-'

'Damn it, tell me, Sebastian!' I demand, the tone of my voice a pitch or two higher than normal. 'Has he… has he taken a mistress?'

His shoulders slump. 'I don't know anything about it, Mary.'

It takes a phenomenal amount of effort to pull myself together, to put what happened between us a moment ago out and this newest revelation out of my mind. 'Thank you for the drink. I think I'll take my leave.' He doesn't stop me as I all but sprint to the door, feeling the fragile bindings that are holding me together already beginning to fray by the time I reach it. It isn't until after I have shut the door that I realise that I never even found out what happened to his arm.


End file.
